


In Which Stiles Is Not Tom Hanks And Wilson Won't Shut Up

by Miss_Snazzy



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Antagonism, Body Horror, Canon Divergence - Post Teen Wolf Season 3b, Deadpool is literally just a severed head, Flirting, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Mutilation, Night Terrors, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Sleepwalking, the removal happens off-screen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 03:07:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: Stiles finds a severed head in the woods. Spoiler alert: it's Deadpool.





	In Which Stiles Is Not Tom Hanks And Wilson Won't Shut Up

“Oh my god, oh my god, what the fuck—” Stiles mutters to himself, voice high and reedy, clenching his hands around his steering wheel as he peels away from the Preserve.

“Someone has a potty mouth,” the severed head in his front seat admonishes and Stiles _can’t_ —

“You—Shut up!  Just shut up!” Stiles hisses, voice cracking.  “Fuck.  _Fuuuck_.”

What the fuck is his life?  What the _fuck_ is his life?

“Apparently, trolling the woods in your pjs at night to pick up dudes you just met, but what do I know,” the severed head comments.

“To pick up—” Stiles sputters.  “You're literally just a head.  What the hell am I going to do with just a head?”

The gaping white eyes of the face’s mask blink up at him.  Somehow.

 _Oh my god_ , Stiles thinks in horror, _what if that's it's actual face?_

“Hey, can you turn up the radio?  It’s boring as hell down here.”

“No!  No radio!  I need to think.  Fuck.”

“And I need something besides the swearing and the sweat of a prepubescent boy to focus on,” the severed head grumbles, shifting in Stiles’s sweatshirt.

“Prepu—” Stiles sputters, indignant, “if anything, that’s post pube—”

“Ah, pubes,” the severed head murmurs, wistful.  “Never thought I’d miss those.”

Stiles squints at the head in disbelief.

“Eyes on the road, baby cakes!” the severed head squeals and Stiles jumps in his seat, gaze darting across the road in search of an oncoming car.

Nothing.  A quick flick of his gaze in the rearview mirror confirms the same.

“The witches aren’t chasing us.”  Stiles frowns.  “Why aren’t the witches chasing us?”

“Beats me,” the severed head replies, shrug audible in its voice even half-muffled.

“I’m gonna beat you like a gorey piñata if you ruin my favorite sweatshirt,” Stiles threatens.

“Sorry, kid,” the severed head mumbles, spitting out a fold of fabric, “but beating me off will have to wait.  M’not packing all my equipment at the moment.”

“That’s—that’s not—” Stiles groans, dragging a hand down his face.

Flashes of yellow light flash in the jeep’s interior as they pass more street lamps, the severed head’s rustling just audible over the engine.  Stiles breathes in and out, gaze sweeping from mirror to mirror.  The frenzy of his movements lessens the further away they get.

“What’s the deal with that, anyway?”  Stiles flaps a hand at his torso-challenged passenger.  “How are you not dead?”

“I’m sturdy?”

“You’re sturdy.”  Stiles blinks.  “Did she say what she wanted with you?”

“Something about harnesses and power.”  Another audible shrug, despite the severed head’s current lack of shoulders.  “Normally I’m all for a little BDSM, but—”

“Harnesses?”  Stiles squints out the windshield.  “You mean, ‘harnessing your power?’”

“That might’ve been it,” the severed head admits.  “Full disclosure, I stopped listening after the first dramatic hand gesture.”

“So we’ve got nothing,” Stiles sums up.  He curls a hand across his mouth in an effort to stifle his urge to yell.  “Seriously?  You couldn’t have focused a little?  Maybe learn something about where she’s keeping _your_ body?”

“Well, when that dramatic gesture has a machete on the end of it, you stop caring about what’s in the pie.”  The severed head shifts till Stiles can feel the weight of one stink eye on the side of his face.  “What’s your excuse, Pajama Boy?  You could’ve gathered some intel about my body before flailing away with my face mashed in your armpit.”

“You want me to turn around?” Stiles demands, clenching his fists around his steering wheel.  “I can drive by that witch’s circle and punt you right out the door—”

“Ah ha ha, no, not necessary, I get it,” the severed head rushes, its laugh a little shaky.  “Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful.  You have a lovely armpit,” it offers, earnest.

Stiles rolls his eyes with a huff, but eases his grip.

“But really,” the severed head continues, peering at Stiles, “why’d you do it?”

Stiles squints, trying to recall what had prompted this latest bout of recklessness.  Snooping in the woods and derailing nefarious plots fell in his usual purview of risky behaviors, but scooping up random body parts _really_ didn’t.  Mostly due to his weak stomach.  His lack of fainting thus far was the real mystery.

“These are desperate times, Mrs. Lovett,” Stiles offers, making one last sweep of his mirrors before turning off the highway.  “Desperate measures are called for.”

The severed head blinks up at Stiles.

“I am so turned on right now.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You don’t even have balls right now.”

The severed head scoffs.

“I’ve got two balls right here!” the severed head insists.  “Haven’t you ever heard you eat with your eyes first?”

“Uh huh.”

“And from what I’m seeing…” the severed head hums, leering at the half-exposed thigh closest to him.

“What, the gear shift?” Stiles snarks.  “You’re like a character from the Addams Family right now.  How are you calm enough for come-ons?”

“Because you’re so smexy, cara mio,” the severed head proclaims in a heavy Italian accent.  “Besides,” it continues in its usual tone, “I lose a body part once a week.  No big whoop.”

“Even your head?” Stiles wonders with a dash of hysteria.

“Once or twice.  Though, this is the first time I’ve had my body stolen right from under me.  Literally.”

Stiles stares out the windshield, easing his foot off the breaks once Mrs. Wessle’s calico darts out of the street.

“Seriously,” Stiles stresses, attention still caught between a neighborhood cat and less than a third of what should’ve been a corpse, “what the hell are you?”

“Can’t you tell who I am from my devilish good looks and devil-may-care attitude?”

“A costume fetishist with the hots for Satan?”

“A costumed fetishist with the hots for Death, maybe,” the severed head corrects.  “You...really don’t know who I am?”

Stiles glances at the severed head, wondering at the genuine surprise in its voice.

“Should I?”

The severed head grumbles something under its breath.

“The name’s Deadpool.”

“Deadpool,” Stiles repeats, pulling into his empty driveway.  “Uh huh.”

 _Still better than Demon Wolf_ , he supposes.

“I’m bigger on the East Coast,” the severed head, _Deadpool_ , insists.

He should pester Deadpool about its real name.  Unfortunate victim of some half-successful sacrifice aside, normal people didn’t run around in red leather under a title based off a hit list.  Potential questions rest in the back of his throat.  Without that flare of adrenaline stumbling upon and evading the witches had sparked, the weight of the last few nights grows heavy.

“Right,” Stiles says instead as he peers up at the house, weary.  “Well, we’re here.”

“Where’s here?”  Deadpool wriggles, but fails to see beyond the dash.

“My house,” Stiles elaborates, peering at the lit porch next door.

“Home sweet home,” Deadpool hums.  “So what’s the hold up?”

“Need to get you inside without anyone seeing.”

“Just pretend I’m a Halloween prop,” Deadpool offers.

“It’s July,” Stiles points out, leaning over to peer into the backseat.

“Ooh, pretend it's Summerween!”

Stiles pauses mid-eye-roll, his gaze anchoring on a solution he doubts the head will like, based on its previous grumbling.

“Okay, I have an idea.”

“Lay it on me, Cupcake.”

Stiles squirms over the seats to produce his gym bag.

“Heh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t have much to work with at the moment,” Deadpool points out, eying the gym bag in distrust.  “Can’t really afford to suffocate my brain on whatever fumes your P.E. clothes baked into there.”

“You keep—you’re worried about my stench?” Stiles demands.  “You’re a severed head!  You probably smell like decay and bad choices!”

“Wow, okay, rude,” Deadpool pouts.  “Besides, I’m pretty sure that witch used her mojo to keep my guts from spilling out.  So whatever nasty you’re smelling is probably coming from your own sweaty balls.”

Stiles drags a hand down his face to muffle the yell he wants to let loose.

“Look, this is what I’ve got.  So, like it or not, you’re going in.”

“With the stinky gym socks and the moldy cheese sticks?” Deadpool near whimpers, rolling back and forth.  “No!  I’ve got a body—somewhere—and I am never—”

“In the words of Brendan Fraser,” Stiles grits out, “‘ _Get. In. The. Pack_.’”

Deadpool pauses its imitation of Linda Blair mid-Exorcism to blink up at him.

“Whoa, does that make me your first boner?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles groans, ignoring Deadpool’s squawk as he stuffs it into his gym bag.

Stiles winces at the icy sting of the concrete against the soles of his feet.  He sends a silent apology to Roscoe for his hurried slam of its door as he struggles to wrangle a cursing gym bag inside without waking the whole neighborhood.

“Shut up and stop squirming before I drop you,” Stiles hisses to the bag, jerking the front door open.

Deadpool continues to grumble, big surprise, but it eases its struggles as Stiles secures the deadbolt and rushes up the stairs to his bedroom.  He deposits his gym bag onto his bed and steps back to shove a chair under his doorknob.  The noises cease.

Stiles stares at his gym bag, stepping toward his bed.

Maybe it’s empty.  Maybe Stiles has been hallucinating this too.

Stiles unzips the bag.

“I can’t believe you used Brendan Fraser against me,” Deadpool murmurs, betrayal heavy in his voice.

Stiles groans. 

Still real. 

 _Damn it._ Things would’ve been a hell of a lot simpler had this turned out to be another chapter of his latest night terror.

“Hey,” Deadpool calls, “what’s your name?”

Stiles blinks down at the severed head in his gym bag and almost misses the days of blissful supernatural ignorance.

“Stiles.”

“Well, Stiles,” Deadpool says, tone pleasant, “if you don’t pull me out of this bag right now, I’m going to start hacking and see what comes up.”

“You don’t have a stomach,” Stiles points out.

“Exactly.”

Stiles stares at the tattered red material where Deadpool’s neck should’ve been.

“Alright, I get it.”  Stiles grimaces, cradling his hands around Deadpool’s jaw to pull it out.

He tries not to meet its vacant white eyes as he holds it away from his chest, searching his room for a good spot.  The chair would’ve been ideal, had he not propped it against his door.  Too many research binges had his desk cluttered.  The floor had its appeal, but even he wasn’t that much of an asshole.

That only left the bed.

Stiles frowns, wasting another handful of seconds surveying his room for other options before leaning Deadpool against one of his pillows.

“Now this is more like it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, tossing his gym bag to the floor.  When he glances back, he finds Deadpool adjusting his position with little squirming motions of his jaw.  The sight is strangely endearing, despite its grotesqueness.

He scoffs at himself and turns to his desk.  A haphazard shuffle of the research from his last binge cuts down on a good chunk of his physical clutter.  The flash drive he managed to swipe the Argent bestiary on shines up at him from the USB port, still only slightly more useful than a paperweight with its partial translation.  Too bad the Argents didn’t have a boner for binary instead of Latin.

Stiles mentally sighs.

This wasn’t an episode of a monster-of-the-week cartoon.  Even with the bestiary’s complete English translation, he wasn’t going to find a convenient entry on magically misplaced body parts.

“Loving the decor, by the way,” Deadpool comments, drawing Stiles’s gaze.  “Broody with just a splash of serial killer flair to spice things up.”

Stiles follows its line of sight to the makeshift evidence board on his wall.

“You’d probably know all about that,” Stiles retorts.  “Now shut up, I’m trying to think.”

Stiles pretends not to hear Deadpool’s responding raspberry.

Deaton might know something, though the chances of him sharing were slim.  Nonexistent if helping interferes with his arbitrary definition of Maintaining the Balance™.

The zombie wolf could provide some insight, from his own experience as a corpse if nothing else, but the price for such information would probably be steep and unsavory.  Obnoxious, too.

_Mr. Argent might…_

Stiles shuts the thought down.

That left two unappealing options.  He knew what Scott would choose.  What he would say if he knew Stiles had placed the creeper wolf on the same list of Selectively Helpful Adults as Deaton.

Though, really, what was worse?  To be mysterious and misleading and withhold information to the point of negligence, or to be a smug, creepy asshole and withhold information for the right price?

Ulterior motives aside, at least Peter played the game.

“Okay, I know someone who might be able to help.”  Stiles frowns.  “Well, someone who can probably point us in the right direction, anyway,” he amends.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for months.  
> Wanted it to be a one-shot, but who am I kidding?
> 
> Keep an eye on those tags.  
> Things may get dicey in the future.  
> I have _plans_.


End file.
